Day 19. London. FIN.

As a cheaper option we have to fly via Hong Kong to get to London Heathrow. Bryony meets us at the airport with a bag she kindly looked after for us.

Over breakfast she tells us a story about being cornered by a sinister 50-year old Japanese man in the alleyway leading to her building. We laugh about it until I start coughing and Bryony tells me I should be wearing a face mask.

After goodbyes we catch the flight home to Christmas, spring mattresses, mountains no higher than 1,344 metres, traffic that takes advantage of the supplied lane system, transsexuals as an oddity, birds that fly, a complete dearth of strangle muggings, recession, a relatively unfriendly populous, food that tastes and looks like it oughta, no mosquitoes, no goddam Chang, intestinal peace, very few available opportunities to haggle, friends that wear tweed, and the countdown to an American visa.

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Day 18. Kathmandu. Complaints.

We’re better today, and journey out to the Patan district of Kathmandu. It has a Durbar Square almost identical to the famous one, except less crowded. There is also less traffic in Patan trying to mow you down as you walk the streets.

We go shopping for an authentic Nepalese rug. Our first port of call is the Tibetan factory. Tibetan refugees work there and we like the idea of our money going to help these displaced people. Unfortunately, we don’t like the rugs and move on to another shop. After being shown almost every rug in the shop we get it down to two, fall for a long ‘runner’, haggle, and make a deal. We are then told that the rug is a tribal design originally from Afghanistan.

Kathmandu is in mist, on a crisp, clear night, as we drive out of the city towards the airport. There is nowhere else quite like Kathmandu Airport. A small, ornately carved wooden box has a sign that says ‘Complaints’ above it. I want to take a picture, but it’s inside Departures and they might have orders to shoot (or they may take you to the president for him to personally answer the complaint - you just don’t know how things will turn out here).

Waiting at our gate, R returns from the loo boasting about its good working order, the availability of toilet paper, sinks with running water, unicorns. I eagerly dash to the gents to see if the fantastic rumours could possibly be true, and am disappointed.

In the gents, not one of the three possible lights are working. All duties have to be performed by ambient light cast from outside the room. Of the two urinals, one is hanging half off the wall. A man frantically washes his hands and lower arms in the only sink. Farewell Kathmandu, I’ll cork it until I’m in the air.

We board and, taxiing to leave, come to an abrupt stop. I wonder impatiently what the delay is, bladder at bursting point. Then the pilot’s voice comes over the tannoy: “Hello everyone. Just as we were preparing for take-off, we’ve noticed that there are some dogs on the runway. We’ll just wait for the authorities to shoo them off and we’ll be on our way.” The impatience evaporates: we’re going to miss this place.

Day 17. Kathmandu. Merry Steakmas.

In the evening we feel well enough to emerge and head out to a local café. Potatoes are being cooked in the coals of a brazier, and our waiter gives one to R to try. She tries it, it’s a baked potato. The waiter acts as if it is something exotic and truly unique. He then brings me a hot compote instead of a hot chocolate. When I refuse it, he tssks at me, or at his mistake, I’m not quite sure, before heading off to replace it.

We go to a local steak house for some tasty medicine. There’s a crowd of waiters just inside the door waiting for us, their first customers, all decked out in waistcoats like a barber-shop octet waiting for their cue. The kitchen is upstairs, and signals to the main restaurant that steaks are ready by activating a speaker through which plays a plinky-plunky version of: ‘We wish you a merry Christmas’. It is a highly effective Pavlovian system.

Day 16. Kathmandu. Festering.

We are still sick today and remain indoors. All we see of Nepal are the posters of the Himalayas that decorate our room.

R notes that I have started to complain about Nepal. Sickness and damp digs aside, we agree that four months is probably the right length of travel time for us. Having to re-pack your bags every few days starts to become a bit of a chore. Also, it is Christmas when we get back and my mother is a damned fine cook.

Outside our window, a woman on a roof terrace (wearing what appears to be a yellow life jacket) tends what could be the unhealthiest tomato plants on God’s earth.

Day 15. Kathmandu. Sickness descends.

In the night I am sick and suffer the worst ‘gastro’ I have ever known. Where does it all come from? Weapons grade farts mar the transition of time. In the morning R manages to get us a more expensive room with a window to the outside. I develop a persistent cough that I imagine is TB.

R looks after me well, however, she too begins to succumb to the lurgy. We end up in bed together watching Seinfeld and Scrubs, arguing over who is meant to be the nurse in between dashes to the toilet.

Day 14. Pokhara-Kathmandu. West to East.

Today we say farewell to the Hollyhock family and catch an early bus heading east towards Kathmandu. At roughly halfway en route to the capital we’ll decamp to go white water rafting.

There’s an enforced breakfast stop after about an hour. The driver places a reassuring rock behind the back wheels of the bus. My tea tastes of semolina sitting outside on a restaurant terrace submerged in damp mist. The bus passes through numerous broken down towns and villages enclosed within agricultural terraces. On the walls of occasional houses are large, bright ads for Tiger, Tuborg, San Miguel, and Krazy Cheese.

We are dropped off for our rafting and immediately hustled to a dark room to change into our swimming gear. There are three others in our raft, two Indians on holiday after end-of-year exams and a Chinese tourist. All are very friendly, and one of the Indians particularly chatty. His head wobbles while he listens to what you have to say, it’s reminiscent of those sunglass-wearing sunflower toys that react to music. He is amazed at the journalism in Nepal, saying, “The newspapers are only five pages long! They don’t want to know about the world! They seem so happy the way they are!”

After our rafting, we catch another bus. It’s overcrowded and, squeezed uncomfortably into the back, I feel every second of the three hour’s remaining to Kathmandu. Headlights are put on at the very, very latest possible in Nepal, and then a little after that. Winding down rough cliff-edge highways, intermittent bus services suddenly emerge out of the gloom traveling in the opposite direction (a carriage of fairy lights and half lit faces momentarily alongside). The experience is rather more like passing down into the Atlantic trench in a very crappy submarine hitting every undersea mountain along the way than descending into the Kathmandu valley.

We share a taxi back into Thamel with the two Indian rafters. The older, taciturn one muses, “These Nepalese crossed with Indians are so beautiful.” Head-wobbler laughs as he tells us that Thamel is seen by locals as the Mayfair of Kathmandu's Monopoly board.

We are staying at the Happy House hostel this time, the Old Kent Road of Thamel guesthouses. Very cheap, very damp, and apparently in league with Sai Baba. Pictures of the afro-ed guru in smiling proliferation crowd the lobby and hallways. We crash out, exhausted and feeling increasingly unwell.

Day 13. Pokhara. Molested, and paying for the privilege.

After taking it easy for most of the day, I’m scouring the main drag in town for the best massage prices. A holy cow walks down the middle of the street before pausing to choke down some cardboard. I find a place a bit cheaper than the others, and resolve to return later with R.

Later, R isn’t feeling 100% and decides she’d rather sleep than get a massage. Not to be dissuaded I return to the cheap place to be led into a private room by an elderly woman. She starts haggling over price, but then one of the guys I made the original cheaper price deal with appears at the door and, without further ado, shoves her outside.

He asks me to strip. I go down to my boxers and prepare to get on the table but he is not satisfied. He gestures that I should get naked and laughs like, "oh silly foreigner". Now an official World Traveler, getting naked in a dark room with a male Nepalese masseuse with walnut-sized knuckles is no worries. Water off a duck's back. I strip, and hop quickly onto the table, feeling like one very tense duck.

The massage begins. It becomes pretty clear that he isn’t trained in any particular style other than 'general massage'. He asks me if I’m German. What the hell are these Germans into? After the shoulders he hops up onto the table and, standing above, massages my neck in a completely non-relaxing way. Surely rape is imminent.

Thankfully no rape, but while massaging my legs he sails pretty damned close to the wind on the upper thigh. Then comes: “Right, turn over.” No chance, that’s enough, I hop off and panic struggle back into my boxers. He seems dissatisfied, and charges me more than agreed. I don't argue. I pay. I flee.

At dinner, we’re again the only customers. Ravin watches Champions League football on the TV. Great ambience. After ordering, our waiter leaves the restaurant to ask neighbouring establishments for ingredients Hollyhock is evidently out of.

Lights come back on early, maybe because it’s Saturday. I polished off the rest of my trekking whiskey before dinner, and by my second beer am getting a bit tipsy. Standing up, I put the headtorch on and flash it about saying, “I’m a party! I’m a party!” R just looks at me until I sit down. “Honeymoon’s almost over,” I say.